


A Goddamn Tragedy

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gay Love, Just Read For the Gay Basically, M/M, gay meeting, gay sadness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-02-11 07:12:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2058807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire is one shitload of a mess. But, once he meets the platinum haired young man who looks identical to the painting he did three months ago, his life begins to slowly come together. And as soon as things come together, they begin to fall apart.<br/>Can he hold on to Enjolras despite his illness? Or is it the other way around?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Goddamn Tragedy

I shuffle through the exhibit, eyes everywhere but on the walls. The people hold my attention and my gaze shifts from one to another seamlessly. Their eyes pass right over me: a nameless face in a mass of familiars.  
When Jacob had asked for a portrait to paste on the wall and a bio to slap on underneath it, I rubbed at my eyes until darkness came and went, staring at a blank Microsoft Office document, unable define my life in a way to make it sound pleasing.  
I also couldn’t find one picture of myself that made bloodshot eyes and lanky-weirdness look cool.  
And so, Anonymous was the artist tonight. It was he who scraped the shapes from his mind and scrawled them onto paper. It was he who smeared the red paint onto canvas and pretended to feel the blood running off his arm. It was he who spilled liquor on his shirt and told his boss it was coffee.  
Sometimes it helps to think of myself as two different people. Me. And the one who drowns his regrets with a bottle until morning.  
I keep trying to tell myself that if you always let yourself believe every action defines you, you won’t have time to make any new ones. But somehow, I wake up every morning surrounded by bottles, and it gets harder to believe.  
“I’ve gotten $60 cash from people trying to bribe me into unmasking Anonymous tonight.”  
Jacob stands next to me. In a fine fabric suit and a pair of converse, he is my most successful friend. He’s also my only friend, but his title would still stand even if I tried to knock it down.  
Jacob owns a slew of unique spaces all over the U.S. San Francisco, Pittsburg, Boston, New York, you name it. These underground money-makers are constantly being rented out for exhibits, prestigious dinners, dance studios, and anything his customers can think of. Jacob walked out of college a millionaire.  
He has always had a sort of responsible feeling towards me, so when he came over to my apartment to make sure I hadn’t died of alcohol poisoning, and saw eight canvases covered in paint, he saw the opportunity. He promised me 70% of entrance fees and put one of his spaces to use.  
“People love your work, R. I’ve made my way through four discussions of ‘what the artist is trying to say.’”  
“God, I hate those.”  
Jacob gives a breathy laugh that ends as soon as it starts.  
Suddenly his iPhone buzzes and Jacob heads towards the door after slapping me on the back. Leaving me alone once more in the hoard of people.  
I weave my way to the back room, murmuring apologies to ears that are not listening. A couple takes one look at my unshaven face and passes through the doorway. I find myself slouching in the middle of the room, and my eyes find themselves locked on the canvas.  
Golden streaks of oil paint adorn the man’s head like a halo. Sharp, tanned features frame slate gray eyes. He rests his gaze on the floor. But it’s almost as if he can look no where else. As if if there is a sadness in his eyes, and this sadness isn’t that at all. It’s a goddamn tragedy. And the weight of this tragedy weighs him down to the point where he cannot lift his gaze anywhere. So it sits on the ground. And this weight does not demand brawn or strength, because if it did, he would have thrown it far behind him. This burden requires something deeper. It requires something he had and does not have. Like the last page of a book he cannot remember why he tore out.  
i don’t know why I painted him so very sad. 

 

 

“You’re Anonymous, right?”  
My head snaps toward the voice.  
It’s another man. His eyes are trained on the canvas. I guess he’s about the same age as me. Maybe a couple of inches taller. This man is wearing a suit, and he would look like one of Jacob’s buddies if his hair wasn’t such a wreck.  
You could see platinum locks near the roots, but the rest of it was a color of dark brown that resembled melted chocolate. It was cut unevenly and it was dyed choppily. It was grimy and looked like he hadn’t washed it for months. This dude was a straight up mess. He looked like a nice family of ferrets lived right on his hea-  
He looks at me.  
Fucking fuck.  
Fucking fuck because the light is hitting his hair to make it look like a-  
Fucking fuck because the sharp angles of his face are framing slate gray-  
He is still smiling at me and I keep looking at the painting because fucking fuck there he is standing in front of me.  
I manage to stutter out the most clever thing I had said all night.  
“You’re in the painting.”  
One golden eyebrow raises at an angle I thought to be impossible.  
“Excuse me?”  
I clear my throat and stutter out another winner.  
“I-I painted you three months ago but I didn’t know you and now you’re here and that’s you.”  
I know I’m acting like a fucking idiot, but I can’t stop because that canvas looks like a fucking photograph of him.  
“Who,” he asks, gesturing to the wall, “this guy?”  
I can only manage a nod.  
He turns toward the painting with a grin on his face as he shakes his head.  
“Nah, I can’t be him. No way. Look at this dude. He’s beautiful.”

 

I guess that’s how I met Enjolras.


End file.
